Water Under the Bridge
by semuta
Summary: Gosford Park fanfic, MaryRobert. You don't get homesick if you've never had a home.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"Impertinence, rank impertinence. Indeed!"

The Countess of Trentham sat down with a huff. Her breath came in short gasps, as if she were too indignant to even breathe.

"As if the money were _Sylvia's_. It's all William's, you know, poor William who was _murdered_ – probably by Sylvia herself, for all we know –"

The Countess fanned herself, evidently overcome with the idea of her niece even contemplating the possibility of cutting off her allowance. Not that Sylvia was so vulgar as to refer to it directly, of course – she was, after all, a Carton, and the Cartons were far too well-bred to speak about money. No, she had just casually dropped at a recent dinner party that her Ladyship might think of diversifying her sources of income.

"Aunt Constance, you really ought to think of putting up that property of yours. Why sit on a pile and never use it? The value of real estate is shockingly unnoticed by our nobility – really, to think of the benefits –"

As if her Ladyship could ever contemplate selling her London townhouse! Why, it was the only thing she had to show off. It had been in the family for years.

The dark-haired, dark-attired maid in the corner quietly continued to undress her mistress, well used to the old lady's tirades. After the death of her niece's husband the Countess's source of income – and the resulting flood of invective – had been transferred over to Lady McClore, who now lived in sumptuous state in London, fully enjoying the power her dead husband's millions inferred. Evidently the scope of Sylvia's bullying antics had now been extended to include her dependent aunt.

"Will you be needing anything else, your ladyship?"

"Hmm? Oh no, no. You may go now, Mary… put up the property, indeed!"

The countess settled into bed with another huff – only to drop off into a deep snore as soon as her head hit the pillow.

* * *

Mary sighed as she descended the staircase. It had been a hard day, and her ladyship had managed to make her task more odious than usual. 

She had not changed much in the last year. A slight, quiet thing with large frightened eyes and "hardly a word to say for herself" was how the help had described her when she first arrived at the Countess' residence.

"Looks like she'll be gobbled up by the old cat in no time. Old lady will buy her cheap and keep her hungry, that's what she'll do. Doubt the little mouse will last more than a month."

Thus the naysayers were surprised to find the "little mouse" staying longer in the Countess' service than any other previous maid – in fact, she actually received a raise, something unheard of in this penny-pinching household. Gossip was rife about how this happened, and whether it had anything to do with the murder of Sir William McClore, who was rumored to have been at the brink of cutting off the old lady's allowance; however none of them were able to inveigle a word out of the young woman. Eventually they gave up in disgust.

"That one knows how to keep her mouth shut. I'll wager her ladyship pays her well on the side – the old girl knows a good thing when she sees it."

To Mary such talk was of little consequence, just as fictional as the mythical bribes that never found their way into her modest pocket. Her life was the same as ever – the daily tasks about the house, tending to the querulous old woman, listening to her complaints and bearing her demands and temper with as little reply as possible. What the Countess gave her at the end of each month was hardly worth her skill as a lady's maid (now far greater than most, given the exacting standards of her employer), and certainly far below the value of her silence on certain indiscrete words uttered by her ladyship concerning Sir William. But it was enough to keep her widowed mother in Glasgow comfortable. Other than that she had few expenses.

Her only happiness came late in the evening, after the Countess went to bed. She closed the servants' door behind her and buttoned her heavy coat tight as she walked briskly out toward the London pavement. On the far corner the street lamp illuminated a tall, strong-shouldered figure.

"Late as usual, I see."

His deep voice had a mocking bent, but his hands clutched hers in a warm grasp as she drew near.

"I'm sorry Robert – the Countess was at Lady Sylvia's dinner-party, you know, and she came home in such a state –"

"Ah, I see Lady Sylvia has decided to give the purse-strings another tug. What did she threaten this time, cut off the Countess's vacation funds?"

"Worse. She hinted her ladyship might want to sell the house."

"Hah! Now that's a remark to get the cat riled. And what would her ladyship's maid do then – follow the old girl down to a flat in the suburbs?"

As he spoke, Robert Parks drew her close and wrapped her in his coat. His warm lips nuzzled the top of her head.

"What am I to do if you leave me now?"

"Robert – it isn't like it's going to happen any time soon, you don't think?"

His deep chuckle sounded close to her ear.

"No, I don't think so. Sylvia McCordle may get a laugh out of scaring her relatives but she's too much of a snob to cut them off entirely. Nothing worse than destitute old aunts to ruin your reputation, you know."

They began strolling down the city pavement. The early winter nights were frigid, but neither said a word to show they cared.

The two had begun meeting soon after their encounter at Gosford Park. He came knocking at the door one day, ostensibly with a private message from Lady Louisa. When Mary shut the parlor door and asked him what she should tell her ladyship he crushed her lips in a sudden kiss.

"I'd rather you didn't tell her I came at all."

After that, he waited for her every night. She learned to slip out after the Countess fell asleep and meet him at the street corner. They had little to do but take long walks around town, and the increasing cold made it difficult at times, but in spite of the discomfort she lived for these brief meetings. Sometimes they even managed to squeeze a day off and go on a boatride, or a picnic to the country. But mostly they were confined to evenings at the flicks – and if they could manage it, a few hours in each others' quarters.

The first time she had been nervous, frightened. He had held her close and softly stroked her trembling protests away as he placed kisses down her neck.

"Shhh, darling, shhh… I won't hurt you. I promise."

It _had_ hurt, quite a bit. But at the same time it had been oddly warm and comforting – the tight embrace of his arms, the touch of his lips, the sound of his breath in her ear. The scratchy sensation of his five o'clock shadow nuzzling against her skin. After it was over he laid his head on her breast with a deep sigh of something almost close to fulfillment. She put her arms about him and stroked his hair, content.

Such encounters were few and far between, however. Their half-day holidays rarely coincided; and he could hardly risk being seen in her room, or she in his. The best they could do was walk and talk until it was too cold to be out any longer.

He was more taciturn than usual tonight. Mary felt his large, warm hand gripping her little one as they walked along. 

"She'll work you to death, you know."

His rough voice startled Mary. Her breath came out in a surprised puff of white cloud as she spoke.

"I – it's not so hard, Robert."

"I mean she'll never let you go. You're underpaid and overworked and she knows she'll never get anyone as good for the same amount of money."

"It's enough for mother. I don't spend much – you know that."

"I know."

He stopped abruptly and turned to her.

"What if you left?"

She was so surprised that for a moment she could not speak.

"Leave my place? Why – Robert, what an idea. Even if I could get a situation it would be weeks – and Mother would never get by if I didn't send my wages."

"She could if I sent her mine."

His voice was quiet. In the yellow light of the street lamp his face was intent, his gaze almost too strong to bear.

Too stunned to speak, she raised her eyes with a frightened look.

"Robert – I –"

"I'm asking you to marry me."

He gently cupped her face in his hands, a thumb stroking her lower lip. Almost by force of habit she nested her cheek against his palm.

"Will you?"

For a split second, she could not find the words to say. And then the whirling lights came back in focus and they burst from her mouth in a quiet rush –

"Yes. Oh, yes."

* * *

Author's note: After I thought I had completely lost interest in fanfiction, this movie sent me straight to my laptop. Which led to an unpleasant realization -- evidently almost no one writes Gosford Park fanfics. If anyone out there could send me links/files/etc., I would be forever and utterly grateful. 

And if you, by chance, have been as starved as I have for Mary/Roberts stories... there's a review button waiting. Send me your thoughts, likes, dislikes, flames, flowers! Remember, authors only upload when they think the audience is interested ...


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"Yes. Oh, yes."

* * *

Later that night, she crept back to her room in the servant's quarters with flushed cheeks and a throbbing heart. 

She could not sleep. Lying in her bed, the events of the evening came back one by one; his hands, his words, his lips. His gentle soft kisses that turned hungry and hot in the dark alley behind Lady Constance's residence. She had pushed him away, startled, and he laughed and caught her against his heart before releasing his grasp.

"I'll let you go for now."

He said he would speak to Lord Stockbridge as soon as things were settled.

"We can leave this life, Mary. Quit scraping and bowing to these toffs and actually live like we're supposed to. I've put a bit by, and an old friend wants me to join him in business. We can settle down and have a comfortable living without having to run up and dress the upstairs people every five minutes."

She had assented, as was her wont. Somehow it seemed like a dream. No more querulous complaints, no more whims and fits of temper to put up with. Just her and Robert and –

She sat bolt upright in her bed.

What of Mrs. Wilson?

She had never told Robert about his mother. What she knew was buried along with her knowledge of that night he entered Sir William's office – never spoken of, even between the two of them. When it surfaced in her memory she always saw Mrs. Wilson saying in that odd, choked voice of hers, "That's what's important – his life." Sometimes it all seemed like a bad dream.

But now it was different. She was to be his wife, and if she kept silent she would be forever living on that lie.

In the silence of the night Mary debated with herself.

What if – what if he was angry with her? What if he left her? He believed his mother was dead. He stabbed his father because he thought she died ruined and unhappy. To find that she was alive – to find she had known him for who he was but never made any attempt to reveal herself – it might break his heart. And he would hate Mary for the pain and deception she inflicted on him.

Oh, but his mother did so much for him, her heart pleaded. She did it all for him. Wouldn't he understand? Wouldn't it hurt him more to think that she – the woman he loved – knew his mother was alive and hid it from him all her life? Wouldn't he – couldn't he forgive?

Mary did not sleep that night. When the weak early sunlight filtered through the curtains she rose and went to the window with her mind made up.

"I'll do it."

* * *

Lady Sylvia's London residence was an extravagant display. A recent acquisition by the newly widowed daughter of the Earl of Carton, it was the product of her industrialist husband's storied millions – a marble-and-gold-decorated tribute to the excesses of pre-war Europe. Her housekeeping staff was fond of saying it had the highest ceilings and greatest amount of modern amenities anywhere to be found in London. 

Everywhere, of course, but the servants' quarters.

Here in the dark bowels of a London townhouse Mrs. Wilson sat and added up her accounts. She was unchanged as ever. Every morning she got up punctually at 5 a.m. to supervise the morning cleaning; at night she sat up until well over midnight, checking and rechecking the column of figures that showed a balanced book of accounts for the household. Upstairs Lady Sylvia might indulge in bacchanals and wild parties, but downstairs Mrs. Wilson reigned supreme. Her ladyship knew it, and was quite happy with an arrangement that saved her the trouble of managing anything beyond her casual affairs and flirtations.

Faded, grey-tinted hair; fastened by neat pins. The plain dress, always dark, with its narrow collar of white lace. The knotted and folded hands, the eyes that spotted every speck of soot with the exactitude of a hawk, the lined severity of her face – had Mrs. Wilson ever been young, a new scullery maid asked? The other servants laughed in the lower hall.

"Her! She was born crabbed, that one!"

Such a woman was Mrs. Wilson, head housekeeper of Sandringham House.

But in spite of the servants' jeers she, too, had been young once. Young and – unbelievable as it seemed – quite pretty. When she put up her hair and wore a new pink dress at the factory girls' dance the fair-haired little beauty with laughing eyes turned more heads than one.

Including that of her employer, William McClore.

Her son had very little of his mother's looks, except her startlingly vivid eyes. In the faded old photograph one could hardly see any resemblance. So little, in fact, that his mates from the orphanage had jeered when they found the picture hidden under his bed. That ain't no mother of yours, they said. Prob'ly some woman cut out of the papers. Robert sometimes bitterly wondered if the face he saw in the glass each morning was a carbon copy of his hated father. He had smashed more than one mirror because of the thought.

But Robert Parks did not look like either his mother or his father. Although he did not know it, he was the living image of his maternal grandfather, a tall, dark man who clerked in one of the city's large banking houses. His untimely death in an accident forced his motherless daughters to seek out work they had not been raised for – in McClore's shoe factory in Isleworth. Elizabeth, the elder, got a job first in the kitchens and used her "pull" with her employer to insure Jane a spot in the assembly lines. Had she known what the results of her efforts would entail she would have probably cut out her tongue, but McClore's beguiling words had lured her into a false sense of security, and she imagined he was only looking out for her baby sister. Why, hadn't he said they'd get married just as soon as he could manage – But that was long ago, and by the time Lizzie learned her mistake Jane was already crying her pretty eyes out after a visit to the doctor's office.

But Robert inherited more than his grandfather's looks; he got what both Arthur Parks and his youngest daughter had in abundance – a strong unbending will and the strength and reserve to carry out what he wanted. As Jane had transformed herself from a laughing girl into a rigid clockwork of a housekeeper, Robert changed as well – from a neglected urchin of the orphanage stamp to a well-groomed, intelligent upper house servant whose ability and reserve made him a prime candidate, they said, to be butler some day. The head gardener at the Earl of Flintshire's establishment remarked as much in his shrewd, old way.

"That one – he's quiet. But he'll get what he wants, whatever that might be."

Mrs. Wilson would have given her eyes and ears to have known such things about her son. She did not, however, and told herself she never would. It was best that they never met again.

It was best for _him_.

So Mrs. Wilson sat at her desk late at night, busy adding and subtracting figures under the dim yellow glow of a gas lamp. When a short tap-tap sounded at her door she scarcely looked up.

"Come in."

A young, caddish-looking fellow opened the door.

"Pardon the lateness, ma'am, but Lord Stockbridge's valet is here to see you. He says it's urgent."

The hallboy was bored and sleepy, or he would have noticed that the housekeeper's pen was frozen in the air, knuckles gripped white and tense. But all she said was,

"Show him in."

"Yes, ma'am. Mr. Parks, sir."

The door opened wide to usher in the visitor, then shut closed. Mrs. Wilson drew herself up and with a brief intake of breath, spoke first.

"Mr. Parks, how nice to see you. You've been well, I trust?"

The dark, tall man gazed at her, his strong-featured face set and unreadable as stone.

"Quite."

"Young Henry tells me you have an errand from his Lordship."

His eyes glinted dangerously in the shadows.

"Not from Lord Stockbridge, no."

"From her ladyship then, I presume?"

"No."

The silence was thick, heavy. As she spoke Mrs. Wilson was aware that her voice was thin and strained.

"Then may I ask why you are here?"

"Because I came to see my mother."

She turned away, suddenly, bracing her form against the desk for support.

"I – I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Parks"

"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. _Miss_ Parks."

His voice was harsh, rough. His word had a deliberate edge about them.

"Did you ever think about telling me?"

She could hear his footsteps, heavy and stark, as he drew near.

"Or didn't it mean anything to you? I suppose you were glad to be rid of me – a good end to something you'd rather never happened."

A sob broke from her throat.

"It wasn't like that – I –"

"Then why did you never look for me? You're no different from him; you gave me away first and decided to forget afterwards.

And when I showed up you killed him before I could so I'd never be caught and expose your little secret."

Tears ran down her face. She could not move an inch if her life had depended on it.

"I'll tell you this much. Your secret's safe with me. And it's even safer because I say this: you're no more mother to me than the old bastard was my father.

Good night, Mrs. Wilson."

Robert turned around and strode toward the door. As he opened it with a jerk a figure outside jumped, surprised; his eyes fell on Mrs. Croft. For a second he stood and gazed at her with dark smoldering eyes; then he walked away, harsh deliberate footsteps ringing in the distance.

Behind him, the cook hurriedly approached the woman he left behind.

"Jane? Jane –"

The housekeeper, half fainting, turned to her sister. Mrs. Croft put her arms around her and held her close to her heart.

"My boy – oh my boy –"

The servants' floor of Sandringham House was dark, silent. Only the heartbroken sobs of its housekeeper sounded muffled and distant in its depths.

* * *

A/N: If anyone's reading this story, sorry about the quality of this update. The ending will be rewritten at some point after exams -- currently too stressed to spend any more time fiddling with it. I've discovered I'm too used to doing vignettes to actually write long chapters. So while _Water Under the Bridge_ attempts to tell a coherent story, it is actually a collection of vignettes, in semi-chronological order. 

For those of you interested in details: Sandringham House actually exists. Formerly an upper class residence in London, as far as I know it is now government property. I was tired of writing and just ripped off the name, so no connection to the actual building implied.

See that button down below? It means "yes I actually read this story." Click and you get my thanks :)


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